'No, and it never was,' said the Phoenix. 'And that about the worm
is just a vulgar insult. The Phoenix has an egg, like all
respectable birds. It makes a pile--that part's all right--and it
lays its egg, and it burns itself; and it goes to sleep and wakes
up in its egg, and comes out and goes on living again, and so on
for ever and ever. I can't tell you how weary I got of it--such a
restless existence; no repose.'

'But how did your egg get HERE?' asked Anthea.

'Ah, that's my life-secret,' said the Phoenix. 'I couldn't tell it
to any one who wasn't really sympathetic. I've always been a
misunderstood bird. You can tell that by what they say about the
worm. I might tell YOU,' it went on, looking at Robert with eyes
that were indeed starry. 'You put me on the fire--' Robert looked
uncomfortable.

'The rest of us made the fire of sweet-scented woods and gums,
though,' said Cyril.

'And--and it was an accident my putting you on the fire,' said
Robert, telling the truth with some difficulty, for he did not know
how the Phoenix might take it. It took it in the most unexpected
manner.

'Your candid avowal,' it said, 'removes my last scruple. I will
tell you my story.'

'And you won't vanish, or anything sudden will you?, asked Anthea,